


The First Nights

by Wreck



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angsty Schmoop, John Feels, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reichenfeels, three times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2012-04-02
Packaged: 2017-11-02 23:14:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wreck/pseuds/Wreck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first night John spent in Baker Street, he lay in bed staring out the window, squinting past the London light pollution, trying to count enough stars to put himself to sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Creole at blanketforyourshock.tumblr.com asked for a fic that involved kissing of foreheads. I dunno if this is what she had in mind...
> 
> Also, this wasn't beta'd so let me know if you see any glaring errors.

The first night John spent in Baker Street, he lay in bed staring out the window, squinting past the London light pollution, trying to count enough stars to put himself to sleep.  Eventually, stars or no stars, John would pass out from exhaustion in the early hours of the morning, uneasy and restless, nightmares weaving in and out of his mind.    
  
It took Sherlock 37 days to ask John about the nightmares, which was 36 days longer than Sherlock wanted to wait.  Much to his shock, John wasn’t embarrassed, he only apologized for keeping Sherlock up.  
  
“Is there anything that helps?” Sherlock had asked.  
  
“Sometimes I try to count the stars,” John replied with a shrug as if to say, “no, not really.”

  
*

  
The first night of the snowstorm that forced everyone off the streets and kept Sherlock and John shut inside Baker Street, John lay in bed wide awake, lost without his view to the sky.  In the flurry of white, he couldn’t even pretend aeroplanes and headlights were stars – he could see nothing but a vast white expanse sprawling from his window.     
  
It took Sherlock 4 hours to wander into John’s room, which was 3 hours longer than Sherlock wanted to wait, listening to John toss and turn.  And much to his shock, John didn’t seem to think anything was weird about Sherlock sliding into his warm but tousled bed.  
  
“I’m sorry if I’ve kept you up,” John had said, face away from Sherlock.  
  
“Do you think this might help?” Sherlock asked, ignoring the apology.  
  
Sherlock pulled John towards his chest, tucked his head underneath his chin, and kissed his forehead gently.  John settled into his long arms, sliding perfectly into a familiar position as if he had always been there in Sherlock’s embrace.  He fell asleep almost instantly.

  
*

  
The first night after the incident at Bart’s, John lay in bed, back towards the window, stars forgotten.  He pressed his head into his mattress, listening as if to a seashell, for the heartbeat that had lulled him to sleep for the past year.  He tried not to move, tried not to adjust for the body that wasn’t there, in fear that scent of Sherlock’s hair on the pillow will fade away.  
  
It had taken John 8 hours to make his way to bed, which is a million hours sooner than he would have waited, but Mrs. Hudson had banished him back to his own flat, insisting that he needed to rest.  And to no one’s surprise, the shock of it all hits him all at once, a wave of anger and fear, loss and regret.  
  
“There’s nothing that can help me now,” John thinks to himself.  
  
He chokes back a sob as he thinks about what Sherlock’s sarcastic response might be if he could hear him now.  
  
And if he lays still, really, really still, he can still feel the ghost of Sherlock’s lips graze across his forehead, just as they always did right before the sleep came.


End file.
